


Christmas Window

by 221b_hound



Series: Captains of Industry [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Hipsters, Anal Sex, First Christmas, Hand Jobs, M/M, Melbourne, Myer Christmas window, Rimming, Voyeurism, moustache sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5492288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas in Melbourne, and a lot of things are on display in the windows. There's the famous Myer Christmas Window display... and then there's the display going on at Captains of Industry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> This is gifted to Atlin Merrick, because all my rimming fics are gifted to Atlin Merrick.

Sherlock is not a time waster. When he says he’s going to do a thing – unravel a computer virus, solve a puzzle, buy a house – he goes right on ahead and does it.

He fell in love the same way, though that was less a deliberate intent than a matter of fate, or simply the fact that John Watson, Barista, was too utterly perfect to resist. So, in love he fell, hard and fast, and it’s a matter of fate or luck and certainly of great delight that John Watson, Barista, fell fast and hard right back.

Going back to the other grasses that do not grow under Sherlock’s feet: having decided he could not live in the Guildford Lane flat any longer after it was marked by that stalker, James Moriarty, Sherlock has spent the last month either at the Adelphi Hotel or with John in North Melbourne.

And here it is, the first week of December, and he has found the perfect flat in Rankins Lane, only a few streets away from Guildford Lane, a few alleys behind Somerset Place and Captains of Industry. It’s perfect. Part of the roof is flat and will be ideal for a few rooftop beehives. The sloped section of the roof is already lined with solar panels to make the most of the sunny days. A little courtyard provides a barbecue area and a private garden.

John likes the private garden. It was almost his favourite thing about the flat, along with the arched windows, the room Sherlock rightly deduced would be perfect for him (it faces north, catching the most sun) and the high ceilings which make him feel like he’s got room to breathe.

Sherlock likes the fact that John likes the garden, and is already thinking of ways to get Sherlock naked in it. Sherlock approves of pretty much all the ways John likes to get them naked. He loves it when he sees that gleam of this-will-be-a-place-for-nudity in John’s eye before he even knows what it will be.

The offer has been made and accepted, though settlement won’t happen until January. Time to celebrate.

It’s late and the café is closed, though John has a key. He’s left his overnight bag there (change of clothes – Adelphi again tonight) so they could have dinner at the dumpling place over the road, and then drinks at Cabinet. There, they sit on the balcony overlooking Swanston Street and drink to their future, so besotted with each other they don’t notice the bar stuff gazing raptly at them, soppy-happy to see two men so in love.

‘Congratulations,’ says the barmen as John pays up.

‘Thanks,’ says John, grinning.

‘For what?’ asks Sherlock.

‘Finding true love,’ says the barman, smiling as though he were the fairy godmother who arranged it all, which is obviously ridiculous, but he’s just so damned pleased for them that Sherlock’s attempt to be cross fails before it begins.

They ramble through the city together, the way they do, shoulders brushing, thighs brushing the backs of their hands brushing, brushing, constantly. The bypass the toxic garden tonight to walk by the Yarra. John points out the possums waddling across branches, and Sherlock notes the water rats scampering between the river and the old vaults that are now a line of riverside cafes and bars.

They circle up Spring Street, past Treasury Gardens, and hold hands, remembering their post-love-declaration picnic. They stop by Grocer for ice-cream and avoid the post-theatre crowd loitering outside the Princess Theatre by sauntering down Little Bourke Street, through Chinatown.

It’s late when they get back to Bourke Street, and the crowds lining up to see this year’s Myer Christmas Windows have dissipated at last. John takes Sherlock’s hand and tugs him to the Elizabeth Street end, where the story starts.

Sherlock has never been especially interested in the Myer Christmas Windows. All those animatronic puppets telling children’s stories are inane.

But he sees John’s point as he bends close to the glass and peers at the detailed work that’s gone into making the puppets and, behind and around them, the city of Melbourne as it was in 1956 – the year of the first Myer Windows, decorated for the Olympics. The little white dog with its back to each window is twee and aggravating, but the depictions of Flinders Street Station, the Hopetoun tea rooms, the trams, are captivating.

John’s face as he looks at the dioramas is captivating. John, with his beautiful moustache and his smart suit and his blue eyes that are like the Melbourne sky in that moment between day and dark, indigo flecked with stars, and his quiet power and his clever hands and they will be living together soon, properly together, all the time together.

Sherlock knows in an abstract fashion that he and John are both only human, and not every day will be perfect. But all the days so far have been perfect. Well. Okay. Not the day the Professor stalked them, but then, John was magnificent, and although John shouldn’t have had to be magnificent, he nevertheless was, and so that day was less perfect and yet still perfect.

Because John is perfect.

John is holding Sherlock’s hand, squeezing his finger, grinning at him. ‘Christmas windows not your thing, eh?’

‘You’re my thing,’ says Sherlock, and realises that could be taken in so many ways, but John just presses a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips, nuzzles slightly as he does so his moustache brushes Sherlock’s upper lip.

Sherlock’s groin tingles. Fuck. He loves that.

‘Let’s get your bag and get to the hotel,’ says Sherlock gruffly, and he doesn’t even make the slightest attempt to hide his desire.

In Somerset Place, opens the door and they go up the seventeen steps to the closed café. It’s hushed in there. The scent of roasted coffee, of leather, of hair wax and floor polish and the oil Mrs Hudson uses to polish up the counter, permeates the large room. It feels warm and lazy and genteelly masculine. If Cary Grant was a café, he’d be this café.

John picks up his overnight bag from where he tucked it into the office at the front, near the windows.

That office will be theirs soon. Sherlock has negotiated with Mrs Hudson for its use. John’s old Underground roundel is already screwed into the woodwork. Baker Street. The consultancy will begin proper in the new year.

Sherlock is leaning on the bench at his usual spot when John closes the office door.

Sherlock is leaning on the bench, his shoulders and back and hips an elegant line held just so. AN invitation.

John smiles, drops his bag on the floor again, and slots himself behind Sherlock, hands on Sherlock’s hips, lips on Sherlock’s neck, his thighs pressed to the back of Sherlock’s legs.

His crotch pressed against Sherlock’s luscious bum.

Sherlock undulates his body, dropping his head so John can kiss more of his neck, and contriving to push his hips into John’s hands, his bum more against John’s groin.

John takes advantage of the invitation and kisses that neck, runs his hands from Sherlock’s hips to his belly, up his shirt to brush over his concealed but peaking nipples, pushes his increasingly sensitive crotch against his boyfriend’s gloriously plush arse.

‘Please,’ whispers Sherlock, placing one hand over John’s as John softly tweaks a nipple. ‘Here. Now. Please.’

Never one to deny his sweetheart anything, anything at all, John slowly unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt and caresses Sherlock’s skin. His ribs. His pecs. Those pebbling nubs. He dips one hand below Sherlock’s waistband, undoes the button, the fly, dips his fingers into Sherlock’s silk boxers. Plays there a while, with fingertips along the shaft, around the head, setting up counter rhythms with the fingertips on Sherlock’s nipple. He pulls Sherlock’s shaft out from his pants and bites the back of Sherlock’s neck and makes Sherlock whimper.

It’s not too long before Sherlock’s trousers are kicked to one side; his pants too; the jacket is off but the shirt, unbuttoned, is on. It hardly provides what might be passingly called modesty. Bare-arsed, cock out, shirt askew and shaking with desire, Sherlock props himself up on the bench and submits entirely to John doing whatever John would like to do.

What John likes to do right now is to kiss Sherlock’s back, to run the pad of his fingers over Sherlock’s belly and balls, between his arsecheeks and over his hole. Fingertips and now tongue and lips and moustache. From nape to inner thigh, John is fondling Sherlock all over. Every now and then, Sherlock feels the hot, hard poke of John’s erection against the back of his legs, or his bum, but John is clearly less interested in doing anything else with it just yet. John’s focus is all on making Sherlock quiver and moan.

Sherlock, quivering and moaning, opens his eyes as he bends over the bench, and he sees the woman on the steps of the old General Post Office over the road. He sees the woman looking up into the window of Captains of Industry.

The café is dark. The woman can’t see much.

Oh, but she can see _something_.

And Sherlock smiles, at what she can see and what she can deduce about what she sees.

Sherlock Holmes has a clever brain. A wonderful mind. He can give his attention to what John is doing to him and for him and with him. And he can spare a little thought for a one-sided dialogue with that voyeur across the street.

 _Can you see me? Us? That look on my face? Oh… Christ…_ ‘John, yes...’ _I’m bent over here, legs spread, while the most perfect barista in Melbourne wriggles his…_ ‘Fuck yes!’ _perfect tongue right into my arse..._ ‘Ah ah ah yes there god!’ _right into it, with his moustache right_ ‘Oh fuck!!’ _THERE and when he’s_ ‘oh oh oh!’ _when he’s done making me wet…_ ‘Christ… oh…’

John’s hand spreads Sherlock’s wetness all along his shaft and then, hand sticky, John grips Sherlock’s arse and spreads his cheeks again.

‘Oh god, John, please, yes!’

 _Any minute now, any minute, god, he’s going to push his perfect cock in there right up me fuck yes, and I’m going to get fucked until I can hardly breathe… breathing’s boring anyway, when I can feel him all the way in me, oh god, now, now, he’s in me now,_ ‘God, John, fuck, yes, yes, ah, ah…’ he’s _perfect he’s so perfect_ ‘YES!’ _Don’t you wish you were me right now? It’s fucking amazing to be me right now with his cock up me and he’s pushed my shirt up, he's kissing my back, his moustache, his mouth,_ ‘Oh god!’ _those hands on me, I can feel his legs against me, his body on mine, his cock moving in me,_ ‘More!’ _I could come with him doing this, but I don’t want to, I want him to fuck me like this, to keep fucking me like this, to be in me like this…_

Sherlock loses track of his internal prayerful gloating and pushes his arse back against John, moaning with the fullness of it, and every push back meets a thrust forward.

And Sherlock grunts, _ah ah ah ah ah ah,_ and John grunts _ngh ngh ngh ngh_ and there’s sweat and heat and the slap of skin on skin and Sherlock’s cries get longer and higher _aaaaah aaaaaah aaaaah_ and John’s found words, _yes yes yes Christ you’re gorgeous oh god Sherlock god yes, yes…_

‘Fuck me fuck me fuck me,’ chants Sherlock, or he thinks he does, but the only sound actually passing his lips is an open-mouthed gasp, _uuuh uuuh_ , as he angles his bum and John’s prick fills him _just so_ and Sherlock spreads his legs more.

John has a fist in Sherlock’s hair, not pulling, more like massaging. His hands drop to Sherlock’s waist and hold him and they are grinding together, push back, thrust forward, hips rolling dirty and fast.

John has Sherlock at just the right angle now, pumping, thrusting, fucking, and he’s coming, slamming in hard, and Sherlock pushes back, trying to take even more than everything, to feel John’s tight balls against his inner thighs, and this is fucking _brilliant_ , the _best_ thing, this is the _best thing_ and _John is the best thing_ and this, this fuck, this cock up his arse, this feeling he has, this orgasm building up and the love bursting out of it too, this life he has, this man he has, all of it, _this this this_ is the best thing ever…

John comes in him, still thrusting, still coming, fucking harder, harder, then slow, slower, frenzy banking to sweet and slowest. Then John’s reaching around – still semi-hard, still inside Sherlock – to wrap his clever hand around Sherlock’s aching prick. John is bent over Sherlock’s back - Sherlock's shirt is rucked right up - cheek to his spine, moustache tickling his skin, and John’s hand his around his cock (and John’s cock still still still up him, beginning to slip out, there’s come everywhere) and Sherlock holds still as John’s curled palm and fingers slip slide grip glide fuck yes up his shaft, slick, fast, faster, and…

 **one:** ‘Oh god oh god! Please! Yes! John John John JohnJohnJohnJohn’ _perfect_ and…

 **two:** his balls are tight and his spine and his chest and his brain are electric, sparking, on fire, perfect, _don’t let it end but I have to come I have to come_ and…

 **three** : Sherlock feels John’s hand wanking him and feels John’s softening cock pressed between the cheeks of his arse and John’s lips and moustache on his back and it’s too perfect to bear and Sherlock comes, fucking into John’s hand and feeling John wrapped around him and feeling loved and wanted beyond imagining.

And then he’s panting on the bench table and John is kissing his back and patting his thighs and saying, ‘God, Sherlock, Christ, fuck that was good. I love you. I love you I love you I love you.’

Sherlock opens an eye and sees the observer on the steps of the old GPO, peering up at their window, wondering, perhaps, if they really did just see what they thought they saw, and Sherlock grins at the image – that lone woman on the steps, staring hungrily up at the window.

_#dontyouwishyouwereme_

Sherlock, laughing breathlessly, grasps John’s hand and raises his sticky fingers up to kiss them, to suck on them, to lick them.

‘You are perfect.’

John laughs and pats Sherlock’s bared, raised bum and says, ‘That’s my line.’

It takes them twenty minutes to clean up – they managed to not despoil the benchtop but the floor underneath is another matter. They are aware they perhaps should feel a bit ashamed of themselves, but neither of them can stop grinning, unless it’s to giggle a bit, or kiss a bit, or pat each other’s bum and then kiss some more.

Once the evidence of their delightful transgression is gone – Sherlock knows that Mycroft will deduce what happened, but Sherlock happens to know a thing or two about Mycroft and Lestrade and the barber’s chair that he rather wish he didn’t, so he’s not afraid of being denounced – they take John’s bag and each other’s hand and walk through the balmy summer December night to their hotel.

Six weeks. One more month, and they’ll be living together, properly, in Rankins Lane.

It is, without doubt, the Best Christmas Ever.

**Author's Note:**

> The Captains of Industry window overlooking Elizabeth Street and the GPO:  
> 
> 
> See pictures of [Sherlock's new flat and the Myer windows at Captains of Johnlock's Tumblr](http://captainsofjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/135696035558/in-the-next-captains-of-industry-story-christmas)


End file.
